


Remembrance Day

by murphybabe



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphybabe/pseuds/murphybabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lads take a break in Derbyshire, but Bodie has an ulterior motive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance Day

Ray Doyle looked around the old church. He wasn’t entirely sure why they were there, but it had seemed important to Bodie, so he’d come along, slightly bemused but willing to indulge his partner.

They were away for the weekend in Derbyshire, and it was Remembrance Sunday. It was cold and sunny outside, and cold and sunny inside this bare, echoing space. Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and stole a glance sideways at his partner, sitting uncompromisingly upright in the hard chair, eyes front and centre, listening to the minister.

“Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,  
they shall mount up with wings like eagles”

That line appealed to Doyle. In his mind’s eye they were back on the trail they’d walked yesterday, where you could see for miles over the bleak open countryside, and he had grabbed Bodie and kissed him until they both stumbled over the track under their feet and parted, breathless and laughing.

Okay, so there hadn’t been any eagles, but there could have been. Perhaps. He didn’t think there were eagles in Derbyshire. Buzzards, kestrels, but no eagles. He jiggled his leg impatiently, then stilled it as Bodie put a warm hand briefly on his thigh. Okay. Respect. He knew how to do this.

He could feel Bodie’s solid presence beside him. This was a less familiar Bodie. Well, little was unfamiliar after 37 years together – God, was it really that long? – but there were still areas that were touchy. He hadn’t even realised that Bodie had brought all this stuff with him just for a weekend – smart black coat, shiny black shoes, crisp white shirt, sober dark tie. Doyle felt quite scruffy beside him, even though he was wearing something from the smarter end of his wardrobe.

The vicar was saying something now. Vicar? Was that the right term? Or was this one a rector? Doyle hunched his shoulders. He hated churches. Or not churches, exactly, but services. As an altar boy he’d had to attend Mass twice on Sundays, and naturally he’d got stick from the other boys because of his curls and robes. His mum hadn’t helped, refusing to let him have his hair cut because he’d looked so angelic. He still remembered the shock and horror reverberating around the neighbourhood when he’d cut that kid. His poor mum.

He dragged his attention back to the service. The vicar had medals on his chest. Weren’t vicars supposed to be pacifists? Had he earned them in the forces, and then come back and been ordained? Or was he a chaplain serving with the forces now? 

Which brought him back to Bodie. And the medal on his chest. Doyle eyed the medal. He hadn’t realised that Bodie had a medal until they’d been together for a long, long while: it wasn’t something Bodie ever spoke about. In the SAS, of course, there were no medals. Who dares, wins. The only win was coming out in one piece, in Doyle’s opinion. Which his Bodie had done, admittedly, but there was still the occasional nightmare and tense silence afterwards. 

There were no medals for Northern Ireland of course - peace keeping on home soil, that was. Doyle snorted silently to himself. Bloody politicians. But there was the General Service Medal, awarded to personnel of all services for campaigns that fell short of full-scale war. That was what Bodie was wearing.

So, he must have planned all this then, the crafty bastard. Not coincidence that they had found this church, in a small market town tucked away in one of the valleys of the Derbyshire Dales. Doyle brooded silently. 

He tried to turn his attention back to the service as an old gent struggled to the lectern. Eagles again, a bronze Victorian eagle this one, wings spread to hold the paper, head bowed. Why with head bowed? Some Victorian convention, perhaps? The veteran had established himself behind the eagle. His voice was quavery, but its conviction rang out true and strong:

“They shall grow not old,  
as we that are left grow old;  
age shall not weary them,  
nor the years condemn.“

There was a respectful pause while the old codger negotiated the step down. Bodie was still sitting rigidly in his seat, attention focused on the service. Doyle tried not to fidget. He was uncomfortable with religion He’d never managed to reconcile his upbringing with his innate beliefs. Why wasn’t his partner uncomfortable too? Bodie certainly didn’t seem to believe in God. Doyle thought perhaps the armed services were wrapped into it, so it was just part of what they did, particularly on this day of all days. He slid his gaze around the church. They were all represented, police, ambulance, a guy with three stripes and a circle on his sleeve (Navy? Commander? Doyle wasn’t sure), The fly boys were here as well. Fire Service. And what was that uniform? He craned to see. Air Ambulance. Some kids – cubs, nudging and pinching one another. Little kids in a royal blue school uniform, sitting wide-eyed and solemn. Army cadets, on their best behaviour, with a gorilla of a sergeant behind them. Doyle sniggered silently to himself. He’d be on his best behaviour too, with that hulk overlooking him.

A clear young voice rang out through the silence.

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.“

The congregation responded, “We will remember them,“ and next to him, Bodie chimed in as well. Doyle missed this one. A girl? In the Cadets? He scanned through the ranks, and noticed she wasn’t the only one. Bloody hell. Mind, Susie Fisher would have his balls on toast if she could hear his thoughts right now. He could see her, feet up on the desk as Parks lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and hear her reaction to his suggestion that she should leave catching the bad guys to him and Bodie.

He was caught out again as the congregation rose and turned where they stood. The vicar led a procession to the back of the church. Ah, this was the names bit. His attention wandered again as all the names engraved on the tablet were read out. Some names were repeated. Why was that, then? Father and son? Tough, to lose two generations from the same family.

There was an increase of tension in the otherwise still body beside him. All senses on alert, Doyle scanned the church for the threat. Nothing. His partner nudged him unobtrusively, standing him down from his readiness for action. One beat behind what was happening again, Doyle fumbled for his place in the order of service as the organ started up for the next hymn. Bodie looked… comfortable. As if his place in this country church was established and secure. How did he do that? He’d never been here before in his life, at least as far as Doyle knew.

They continued through the service, sang the National Anthem (Doyle’s attention strayed to that nutter so many years ago… Dawson? No, Lawson, that was it, and Bodie running for that bloody tank, and Cowley’s tart comment after it was all over) and then followed the procession out through the town, the church band resplendent in red coats and white trimmings and all the flag-bearers concentrating fiercely on keeping their proud burdens steady. Doyle gave part of his attention to the ceremony at the war monument but he was waiting impatiently for it to finish so that he could get Bodie back to their temporary home and find out what exactly had been going on today.

At last. They drove sedately back up through the limestone countryside, through the narrow lanes bordered with drystone walls up to the heights where the sun still shone over the empty fields. Bodie reversed the car neatly into the small parking space at the side of the rented cottage.

‘Right, then, fancy a pint?’ Bodie rubbed his hands together and looked towards the pub just over the road.

‘No way, sunshine. Not until you’ve explained exactly what all this was about.’

‘All what about? Ah, come on, Ray, just a pint? They do a great giant Yorkshire pud over there, as well – with veggie sausages for you.’ 

Eyes wide, Bodie tried to brazen it out, but Doyle wasn’t having any of it. He unfastened his seatbelt and got out of the car. 

‘Inside.’

Bodie took a deep breath, then followed his partner. Once through the door, he took time to hang up his coat and remove his polished shoes. Doyle was leaning against the doorframe.

‘You planned this.’ Doyle’s gaze was direct and challenging.

‘Um… yeah. Sorry, mate.’

‘What’s it all about then?’

‘Look, I’m sorry, all right?’

‘You don’t need to be sorry, I just don’t know what’s going on, that’s all.’ Doyle stepped forward and gave his partner’s shoulder a comforting rub. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I planned it. I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry.’

‘Tell me what, Bodie?’

‘Look, you know that letter I got, last month? From the Army Records office? It was about my great uncle.’

Now Doyle was intrigued. It usually took wild horses or the like to drag reminiscences about his family from Bodie. He put on his best encouraging expression, in the hope that the story would continue without being prompted.

Bodie saw through this immediately. ‘Yeah, I’m gonna tell you, so you can stop looking at me like that.’

Doyle grinned, and led Bodie through to the sitting room, with its comfortable deep settees and cosy fire, banked against their return. He poured two glasses of Aberlour and pulled Bodie over to the settee. Curled against him, he could still feel the remnants of tension in his partner’s body, but he reckoned it would be easier for Bodie to talk if they weren’t sitting looking at each other.

Bodie took a breath and continued.

‘Wilfred was my mum’s uncle. He was always a bit of a black sheep but when World War One broke out he enlisted and went off to France. It sort of redeemed him a bit, you know? Then he suddenly dropped out of sight in slightly questionable circumstances and because he’d had a bad reputation, everyone assumed he’d deserted. Well, that was it. Shame, disgrace – you name it. His name expunged from the family bible, the lot. My gran was mortified, but mum said she always insisted he wouldn’t have upped and left. Of course, he’d been such a bad lad no one would believe her.

Anyway, long story short, they found some bodies on a beach not long ago, and turns out one of them was him. Sent on a secret mission, papers intact to prove it, all hunky dory after all. Too late for gran – my mum as well, of course, so I thought I’d come and see his reputation restored and all that. Sorry you had to get dragged in too.’

Doyle was silent for a minute. 

‘You daft bugger. You went through all this – finding the perfect cottage, getting us up here – just to do all this in secret?’

Bodie ducked his head, slightly shamed by Doyle’s easy acceptance. 

‘Well, sentiment and family, you know? Not my thing, really.’

Doyle ignored this. He was thinking back.

‘Stirzaker. That was him, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah – Wilfred Stirzaker. How did you know?’

‘That was the name you tensed up at. And he wasn’t on the memorial, was he?’

Bodie nodded. ‘He will be, you know. They’ll put him on there. The vicar said so, when I spoke to him.’

Doyle hugged Bodie tighter and smiled, nuzzling into the greying hair. 

“‘At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”’ 

Bodie turned to face him.

‘You weren’t bloody listening! Away with the fairies, you were, all through the service!’

‘Nah, you know me, mate. Ears like a hawk.’ They laughed together, bittersweet, remembering another young man who’d died in the service of his country a long time ago. Together, they raised their glasses, thinking of Tony, of Cookie, of Matheson and King, Fraser and all the other young men who’d made the ultimate sacrifice, not managing to move on, up and out of the murky depths of CI5 and its successors. And thinking, once more, of George Cowley, the man who’d made them, who’d partnered them, and who had, in the end, wished them well in their lives together. There was only one toast that would do. 

‘To absent friends’

‘To absent friends.’

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They’re not mine. In another world, this would be the case, but as it is, I’m only playing with them and I’ll put them back afterwards. No copyright infringement is intended.  
> Notes: With thanks to BySlantedLight for the beta, and GreenGerbil for providing the inspiration when I didn’t quite know why Bodie was there, and for the OPP ladies for general assistance and encouragement. Also, to my daughter the cadet, who made me very proud :)


End file.
